


Can I Keep You?

by ConsultingTimeLord



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingTimeLord/pseuds/ConsultingTimeLord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Sherlock Holmes finds a boy, lost and crying, in his own backyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Keep You?

A giant grey eye peered curiously over the dominion of insects through an old magnifying glass. A little boy, no more than five, crouched in the dull green grass on his knees as he steadied himself with his free hand. He crawled forward an inch or two, rubbing grass stains into the threads of his designer jeans, as he followed a small, hairy caterpillar through the tall blades. He studied its movement and behavior patterns through the glass his parents had given him for his birthday that year.

The boy set the magnifying glass on the ground and brushed the dark, curly hair from his brow so he could keep the bug in his sights. He pried his eyes away for a second to grab a clear, plastic cup with an aerated lid at his side. He opened it, threw in a fistful of grass, and placed it in front of the caterpillar’s path so it would crawl in of its own accord.

The boy smiled, his nose crinkling slightly, as the bug inched past the lip of the cup, feeling a sense of triumph when he popped the lid into place. He watched it crawl around in it’s new, considerably smaller environment for a few seconds before picking up the magnifying glass and his spare container in search of a new specimen. He hoped to catch a cricket; they were too quick for him, but all thoughts of bug hunting dissolved when he heard a despaired cry from somewhere nearby.

He raised his head, alerted by the sound, and scanned the immediate area for the source. The private forest that was his backyard seemed so vast compared to his tiny form that finding the source appeared impossible. It was a challenge he was eager to take. He held his tools tightly in his arms and ran in the direction he suspected the cries were coming from. The scene around him sped by as he ran, his learned grace and balance from etiquette classes keeping him from falling over, and he knew he was getting close as the crying grew in volume.

He slowed his pace as the trees became more frequent, stopping all together when he spotted someone sitting on the ground in the distance. He debated walking up to the person, as his mummy taught him not to talk to strangers, but he could discern from the size of the body and pitch of the cry that it was a child, like himself. He or she probably needed help and he didn’t see the harm in helping. More selfishly, the curiosity of why the boy or girl was crying ate away at him.

He tightened his grip around his tools and weaved through the trees toward the other child. He slowed down when he was a few feet away and approached with caution. He discovered the child was a boy, around his own age, with short, blonde hair and a striped jumper. He walked around to face the boy, who had his face buried in his arms, and sat down in front of him. He set down his belongings in the dirt and picked up his magnifying glass. He examined the boy through it, studying his visible features until he finally noticed him.

The little boy stifled his sobs as he looked up to see a large grey eye staring at him. His breath caught in his throat from fear until he realized the eye belonged to a boy whose face was hidden behind a round piece of glass. The curly-haired boy lowered the glass and stared at the other boy’s large, wet, grayish-brown eyes and red, flushed face. He looked so sad and lost that it took him by surprise.

“Hi,” the curly-haired boy said. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. Why are you crying?”  
The blonde boy sniffed, his confusion taking precedence over his tears. “…Hi?”  
“Hello,” Sherlock said again, happy to know the boy could speak. “Do you have a name?”  
He nodded.  
“What is it?”  
The boy hesitated, internally debating something. “John,” he said eventually, his voice sounding stuffy from his clogged nose.  
“John what?”  
“John Watson,” he said, wiping his nose off on the sleeve of his jumper.  
“Well, John Watson, you still need to answer my question. Why are you crying?”  
“I’m not,” he sniffed defiantly.  
“Not now, but you were.”

John looked away from Sherlock, too ashamed of his tears to look him in the eye. He used his sleeves to dry his face and drew his knees to his chest as if to hide himself from view. His big, doe eyes peeked out from over his knees, still shiny and red around the edges. Sherlock stared at him, watched him, and decided John was much better than any bug he could catch and, unlike the bugs, he could talk back. Sherlock mimicked John’s position and rested his chin on top of his knees as he watched and waited.  
“I got lost from my parents and sister,” John said, his voice clear of wavering sadness.  
“You lost them?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

He could hardly imagine such a thing. Between his own parents, his brother, and the help, something like that had never occurred to him. He stared at John, wondering what was going through his mind, when a mad yet brilliant idea hit him.  
“If your parents are lost… can I keep you?” Sherlock asked, his eyes shining with excitement.  
He’d never had a friend before and the thought of having one around all the time filled him with an unusual sense of joy. Unfortunately, John didn’t seem as excited. In fact, he appeared downright shocked with wide eyes and an open mouth.  
“Wh-what?”  
“If you lost your family, I can take you home with me. We can be family. My parents, well, they aren’t around much and my brother is a bit mean but the help are nice and I’ll take care of you,” Sherlock explained enthusiastically.  
John thought about it for a few minutes and decided it wouldn’t be so bad. He was alone and had nowhere else to go; he was lost and almost positive that he wouldn’t find his way back. There would be a roof over his head and Sherlock seemed nice enough. He uncurled his body and stood up, holding out his hand to help Sherlock stand.  
“Okay,” he said, and Sherlock gladly accepted his hand.

Sherlock bounced to his feet with newfound fervor. He picked up his tools and handed the caterpillar to John, who stared at the curled up bug with interest. He was ripped from his study of the creature when a hand slipped into his free one and started to pull him. Sherlock dragged John out of the woods and into his open yard. John didn’t have time to look around him as he was pulled through the grass and up the front steps of a building. He finally had a chance to breathe as they stood on the top step and John couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d never seen a building so big, not in person.

It was a huge mansion, standing three floors high, with a height of ten, maybe twelve feet. It was difficult for John to gauge as he craned his neck in an attempt to see the roof. He concluded that if someone were to find and stand on the roof, they could reach the moon. It seemed to be as wide as it was tall, maybe wider, and very white. He wasn’t tall enough to see any of the other colors.

“Wow,” he said. “Which flat do you live in?”  
“Flat?” Sherlock asked as he turned the knob of the front door with his free hand and nudged it open with his shoulder.  
“Yeah. Which part of the building?”  
“All of it,” he replied, wondering why he would ask such a thing.

John turned his attention to his new friend, eyes so wide that Sherlock thought they might fall out of his head. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand again and dragged him through the threshold before closing the door behind them. John had long forgotten about being lost as he gaped at the bright and glossy foyer. An expensive looking tapestry rug was spread across the wooden floor just in front of a grand staircase. From his vantage point, he could see at least four rooms that branched off of the one he was in. He tore his eyes away to look for Sherlock who had set down his stuff and was carefully removing his shoes. John glanced down at his mud-caked trainers and figured it would be best to do the same.

He set down the poor, shaken caterpillar, who had yet to uncurl from its protective ball, and pulled off his shoes without bothering to undo the laces. He turned to watch Sherlock again to see him lining up his shoes against the wall beside the door. John respectfully followed suit because if he planned on living there, he would have to learn the rules.

“How can you live in all of this?” John asked after he had placed his shoes neatly beside Sherlock’s. “You must get lost all the time.”  
“No,” Sherlock said proudly. “Just the once and one of the maids found me after an hour.”  
“Maid… like in Robin Hood?” John asked, confused.  
“What’s Robin Hood?” Sherlock replied, even more confused.

John appeared very surprised that he’d never heard of the famous story. All of his friends knew it. “You’re so weird.”  
Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and his face fell, visibly crushed. That’s what everyone at school always said to him. Weird, freak, he was convinced there was something wrong with him. His eyes started to water but he pushed down the tears. His brother, Mycroft, made fun of him when he cried. John, however, was bemused by Sherlock’s reaction. He could see tears collecting in his eyes and he wasn’t sure what to do to stop them. Panicked, he did what his mum always did when he cried. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.

Sherlock was startled, shocked as he looked down at the boy attached to him. He wasn’t sure what was happening but it was comfortable and warm so he reciprocated and placed his own arms around John. They held on for a few seconds until John pulled away, prompting Sherlock to do the same to follow the unknown custom.  
“What was that for?” Sherlock asked.  
“You were sad. Hugs make me feel better when I’m sad. And I didn’t mean weird in a bad way, if that’s what made you sad. I like weird,” John smiled as his doe eyes shined.  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, feeling foolish for almost crying. “Okay. Do you want to see my room?”

John nodded eagerly and Sherlock ran up the stairs, expecting John to run after him, which he did. Sherlock veered off the second floor landing and down a hallway, almost making it past a woman in a black uniform. She held out her arm and forced him to stop as he collided into it and John collided into him.  
“Sherlock, where are you running to?” she asked, kneeling down so she was at his eye level.  
“To my room,” he replied, hoping that would be enough for her to let him go. It wasn’t.  
“And who is this?” she asked, indicating John.  
“This is John Watson. He’s my friend.”  
John nodded in confirmation.  
“All right, then,” the woman said exhaustedly. “No more running in the halls.”  
Sherlock nodded and walked down the hall to appease her wishes.  
“Who was that?” John whispered, as he walked beside him.  
“One of the maids.”  
“She doesn’t look like a maid.”  
“What kind of maids do you have?”  
“I, uh, don’t have any,” John replied sheepishly, unsure why he felt ashamed of it.  
“Weird,” Sherlock replied and John smiled.

They passed a few rooms, most of them with their doors closed, until Sherlock suddenly stopped outside one of the last two at the end of the hall. He knocked on it and waited, listening for something, and when he didn’t hear anything in response, he opened the door. It was a bedroom, an exceptionally neat one with everything in its place. It was also boring, with no posters on the walls or decorations except for a collection of umbrellas hanging on a wall rack.  
“Is this your room?” John asked, as he peeked around Sherlock to see.  
“No. This is my brother’s room. Mycroft. He has a sweets stash in here. It’s a lot easier to steal from than the kitchens.”

Sherlock stepped in carefully, making sure not to touch anything, and indicated to John to stay where he was. He crept across the floorboards until he stepped on one that emitted a loud creak. Sherlock jumped back and waited, listening in case his brother returned, but when no one came running, he knelt down and lifted up the creaky board. Swiftly, he snatched something from inside the floor, replaced the board, and was back outside of the room without disturbing anything. He handed John what he had taken, a couple of brightly wrapped chocolates.  
“Aren’t you going to have one?” John asked as he unwrapped one of them and popped it in his mouth.  
“No, I don’t like sweets. I just like stealing from my brother.”

John shrugged and followed Sherlock as he walked over to the other door and opened it. It was another bedroom, the polar opposite of the first one. The room was a mess with papers and books and glass containers strewn everywhere. The walls were decorated with hand written equations and questions. Flat surfaces housed those plastic containers, each one with a different bug inside it. John was in awe.  
“This is so brilliant.”  
“You think?” Sherlock asked, surprised.  
“Definitely,” John nodded.

Sherlock was about to introduce John to his bug collection when approaching footsteps caused him to freeze. He thought it was Mycroft, that maybe he knew he’d been in his room, but as the footsteps stopped in his doorway, he looked up to find something much worse. His mum. Sherlock had been graced with her sharp, grey eyes but not her light brown hair, which was pulled back into a tight bun. Her tailored black dress cost more than John’s family’s flat and she carried herself like she should be feared and respected. She didn’t look very happy with Sherlock.

“Hello, mummy,” Sherlock said solemnly, staring at his feet.  
“Sherlock Holmes, did your father or I give you permission to have someone over?” she asked, cutting straight to the point.  
“No,” he mumbled. “But I found him, mum. He was in the backyard. I don’t see why we can’t keep him.”  
“You found him in the backyard?” she replied, looking from Sherlock to John. “What was he doing there?”  
“He got lost from his family but I found him. We can take care of him! Please, mummy, I’ll feed him and everything,” Sherlock pleaded.  
“Sherlock, this boy has a family. I’m sure they’re worried sick about him,” she turned to John. “Do you know your phone number, sweetheart?”  
He looked to Sherlock before nodding.  
“Come with me, we’ll call your parents to come and pick you up.”  
“IT’S NOT FAIR!” Sherlock shouted.  
“It’s not up for debate!” his mother snapped, silencing him immediately.

She held out her hand for John who hesitantly took it. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock that way but he didn’t want to challenge authority. Sherlock’s mother led John out of the room and to the nearest phone where she called his mum and dad. They were relieved, of course, to learn that he was safe and rushed out to pick him up. Sherlock spent the entire time sulking in his room, refusing to talk to anyone. Mostly because he didn’t want them to know he was crying. It wasn’t until John found his way back to Sherlock’s room that he started to calm down.  
John waited in the doorway, lingering for a minute before walking in to sit beside Sherlock on his bed.  
“I’m sorry,” John said. “I wanted to stay.”  
“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock replied. “I was stupid to think you could.”

The two sat in silence until John’s parents arrived and Sherlock’s mum came to collect him. Sherlock sighed, looking the other way because he didn’t want to see him leave. He wished he had never met him. Yet, when John started to move, he was stopped by a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. John smiled before hugging back and they stayed like that until John inevitably had to leave.

John waved sadly as he walked out of the room and Sherlock turned away in response. He looked up at his bug collection, slithering and crawling in their cups, and they suddenly seemed unbearably dull. He only had one friend and he had him for less than a day. He wasn’t sure if it had been worth it but he knew he would always remember that crying, blonde-haired boy.

 

Twenty-five Years Later

 

Sherlock sat in the lab at Bart’s, testing new evidence in a Petri dish, when the door creaked open. He sighed in frustration as he had requested not to be disturbed, but when he glanced up he found something far more interesting. Mike Stamford walked in with another man. Short with sandy hair and grayish-brown eyes. He was an army doctor, easy enough to figure out, with a psychosomatic limp. Interesting. He must be a prospect for a flatmate, he thought, since he’d just been talking to Mike that morning about not being able to find one.

The man seemed familiar somehow. He needed a way to get closer to him without seeming strange. He needed to send a text for a case, he reasoned. He knew Mike didn’t have his phone on him but he could ask for it in hopes the other man will offer his. He seemed like the type.  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There‘s no signal on mine.” he asked without looking at him.  
“What’s wrong with a landline?” Mike asked.  
“I prefer to text.”  
“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike replied, motioning toward the door.  
“Uh, here,” the man said, reaching into his pocket. “Use mine.”  
Success.  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, acting mildly surprised. “Thank you.”  
He stood up and started to walk toward him, the man’s features seeming more and more familiar, when Mike said the words that broke through the veil.  
“An old friend of mine. John Watson.”

John Watson. That name hit him hard but he managed to keep his realization internal. That’s why he was so familiar; he was John Watson. His John Watson. His only friend to this day. He still looked so much the same but his personality was different. And his eyes, they weren’t doe eyes anymore. Not after what he saw in the war. He wanted to say something, do something, but John clearly didn’t remember him. Sherlock frowned, failing at hiding his disappointment, but quickly collected himself. He grabbed the phone from him, slid open the keyboard, and created a new text. If he didn’t remember him, maybe he could impress him a little.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked.  
John hesitated. “Sorry?”  
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked again, looking up at John.  
“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you--”  
“Ah! Molly!” Sherlock interrupted as Molly, the woman from the morgue, walked in with his coffee. “Coffee, thank you.”

He handed back the phone to John as he accepted the mug. John glanced down at the phone as he was about to replace it in his pocket and paused. There were four words that Sherlock left up on the screen. Four simple words that, when strung together, were enough to jog John’s memory. Can I keep you?  
John stared down at them, mouth agape, and then up at Sherlock beside him. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”  
“John Watson,” Sherlock replied with the biggest, most genuine smile he’d managed in a long time.


End file.
